Chapter 20 #2
Bastion keeps working me, relentless and careful, the rhythm so precise it’s almost mathematical—if math could be sweaty and desperate and addicting.
My hips rock up, chasing every little bit of friction, and every time I buck, he matches my pace, never wavering, just adapting.
Even with his arm in a sling, he’s so strong, so steady, like he can hold me together by force of will alone.
I can’t hold back anymore. The surge comes all at once, overwhelming and bright. I let out a noise that’s half-sob, half-laugh. My vision whites out, a blank flash behind my eyelids, and for a long, senseless moment I’m not sure if I’m ever going to come down.
When I do, I’m shaking and boneless, but Bastion doesn’t move.
He holds me together, his good hand cradling the back of my neck.
He presses his body right up to the edge of mine.
He traces circles on my hip with his thumb, grounding me while the aftershocks run wild through my limbs.
I feel every heartbeat in my wrists, my teeth, my toes. I could cry.
“Breathe,” Bastion says quietly. “You’re okay.”
I want to say something smart in return, but all I can do is whimper.
My hand is still clamped down on his shoulder, and when I finally get control of my muscles, I tug him down until he’s sprawled over me, heavy and warm.
I bury my face in his throat, breathing in the mix of pine and sweat and Bastion.
He doesn’t ask if I liked it. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay.
He already knows, and I love that about him, the way he reads me like a map he’s been studying in secret.
He shifts, careful not to jostle my oversensitive skin, and lays his head beside mine, close enough that our tangled hair blends together on the pillow.
The world slowly comes back into focus. The mess of paint on my legs, the rumpled sheets, the fine tremor in my hands. I feel cracked open and rearranged.
I feel like myself for the first time in hours.
Bastion’s fingers never leave me, even when I shudder at the touch. He strokes slow and gentle, coasting me down until I’m limp and a little giddy. There’s a tension in his jaw, though—something unfinished lingering behind his eyes.
Bastion brushes my cheek with the back of his hand, then leans in and kisses me, slow and searching, like a question.
I answer it with my mouth, hungry and grateful, pulling him closer until I can feel the thunder of his heart through his ribs.
He tastes like coffee and sweat and something bitter underneath.
I reach for him, dragging him down to kiss me again. He smiles against my mouth, then slides lower, kissing a line down my stomach. I feel his breath on my thighs before I feel his tongue, and when he licks me, slow and careful, I nearly black out.
Bastion isn’t anything like Wyatt, not in the way he kisses, not in the way he touches, and certainly not in the way he goes down on me.
Wyatt is playful, devil-may-care, always talking, always pushing for the laugh, the gasp, the “fuck, that’s good, don’t stop.
” But Bastion—Bastion is all discipline and gravity, every movement measured and serious, like he’s solving an equation he doesn’t dare get wrong.
He kneels, one-armed and invulnerable, between my thighs, eyes up at me and unwavering, like he’s trying to memorize every tremble that passes across my face.
There’s nothing hurried about it, nothing showy or rushed, just the relentless, focused pressure of his tongue against my clit, a rhythm so precise and unyielding I almost hate him for it.
Bastion holds me open, tongue circling and lapping and pressing, the world narrowing to the wet sound of him and my own muffled gasps.
I have to look away, but it’s useless. My body betrays me.
It arches up into Bastion’s mouth. I tangle my hands in the short, bristly hair at the back of his head.
He hums, low and approving. The vibration shivers through me and sets off a chain reaction deep inside.
I cum so fast and hard it feels like a muscle tear, like my body splitting from sternum to groin, and Bastion just keeps going, drawing it out, refusing to stop even as I beg him, legs kicking uselessly against his shoulders.
He only slows when my thrashing turns to spasms, when I’m half-gone and breathing wetly through sobs.
Then, finally, he looks up at me, his mouth and chin slick, eyes brighter than I’ve ever seen them.
There’s something feral in his expression—possessive, but also proud, like he’s built a new version of me out of nothing but sweat and nerve endings.
Bastion wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and climbs up my body. He gathers me up, all at once, not tentative or gentle but deliberate, like I’m the only thing in the world he wants to hold. He buries his face in my hair, chest heaving against my ribcage. A laugh rumbles through him.
“You’re a menace,” I say, after a minute.
He grins. “Takes one to know one.” Then his grin fades and his brows knit together.
I want to stay like this forever, but my heat-addled brain is already looking for the next release. But by Bastion’s body language I can tell he wants me to rest for now.
“So what now?” I ask, voice small. I know what I want but there’s very obviously something else on Bastion’s mind.
Bastion is quiet for a second. “Now, you let your body finish what it needs to. Then we figure out how to make Ranier see sense.”
I snort. “Good luck.” Better chance of hell freezing over.
He looks at me, serious. “You’re not leaving, Emery. Not unless you want to. And even then, I’m not sure I could let you go. Not really.”
The weight of Bastion’s words hit me and sink deep. He really means it, doesn’t he? I dare to let the hope of that bloom within my chest. For a moment, I allow myself to enjoy the thought of a pack family. The love and comfort, and everything else that would come with it.
If Ranier allows.
I want it. So damn badly.